Page 16 of The Artist and the Muse

“Not at all.” I pulled out my notebook from the pocket of my denim jacket. “Tell me more.”

The more time that Pastor Tony and I spent at the art museum, the more I felt my worldview shifting. I’d always seen the sacred and the secular world as two separate realms—like oil and water, never to mix. An invisible veil always separated Sundays from the other six days of the week.

That had especially been the case when I’d been living in Montréal and had been forced to attend Mass with my father. Then, after I’d left Canada, partially on Sebastian Cavalli’s urging, I’d never gone to church. Mass had become a distant memory fading into the background of my new, colourful, artistic life.

After all, weren’t church-goers just uptight do-gooders and prudes? Certainly they didn’t know what life was like in therealworld. I was living in reality; they were the ones floating around in a made-up fantasy where the dead were raised and talking serpents tempted women with fruit.

But as we talked more and more about the art and the lives of the artists themselves, I began to reconsider. The lines between God and the world blurred together, until it seemed that He was in everything—in all of His creation.

***

Hours later, Pastor Tony and I found ourselves at a run-down diner a few blocks from the museum. Over a plate of curly fries split between us, as well as a cheeseburger for me and a pulled pork sandwich for him, we found ourselves talking about everything and nothing.

He told me about his life growing up in the South, in Kentucky, where he’d lived for years before meeting his wife. She had been accepted to Juilliard to become a ballerina and he’d gone with her toNew York. Somewhere along the way, he’d gotten his degrees and had decided he wanted to become a pastor. Between working odd jobs with late hours, the two of them had scraped by in New York and managed to furnish a comfortable apartment with two children and love.

His story made me wonder at how easy life seemed to be for some. Though I didn’t know the whole depth of his story—the full gravity of the joy and sorrow he had experienced—his life sounded like a fairytale of sorts. He knew what he wanted to do in life and had set out to accomplish it. He was working in a vocation he seemed suited for, and he had a happy family who loved him and whom he loved in return. How many people could say that?

“Well George, you know so much about me now, but all I know about you is what I’ve heard from your sister and brother-in-law.” Pastor Tony took a sip of his Diet Coke. “Tell me about yourself.”

I chuckled. “I’m not sure my story is as happy of a tale as yours.”

“I’m used to hearing about people’s heartaches, but you can leave out the sad parts, if you want.”

I took a deep breath. Telling him only the sunny parts of my life felt like a lie, when we’d just spend hours looking at Caravaggio paintings and discussing the seedy, broken parts of Caravaggio’s life. Why not tell him? He might have some advice for me.

“I left Canada for Europe when I was eighteen, and I think it might’ve been the biggest mistake of my life.”

His brows rose, but he nodded. I supposed he was good at being non-judgmental; he probably had endured a lot more—and a lot worse—sob stories than mine. “Go on.”

“Growing up, I never got along with my dad. Before my mom passed, things were easier. She encouraged my artistic skills and talents, and she would always hang my artworks on the fridge, even when they were nothing more than macaroni glued to a paper plate. But after shedied, my dad…” I rubbed my jaw. Pierre Devereaux had been a hard man, but a good man. Even now, thinking of him made my heart swell in my chest, tightening my throat. “He thought art was a waste of time and a distraction from what he wanted me to do, which was running the business he’d worked so many years to build. And I never wanted that life for myself.”

I picked up a curly fry before letting it fall to the plate and wiping my fingers on a napkin. I fixed my gaze on the glass of Sprite in front of me. “I love him. He’s my father. And looking back now, I’m grateful that I had him, even though we disagreed on how I wanted to live my life. But… he was so intense. His vision for me was so all-consuming that I felt, as a teenager, that if I didn’t get away from him and escape who he wanted me to be, I’d never find whoIwas meant to be. Does that make sense?”

Pastor Tony made a noncommittal noise. “It’s common for children and parents to disagree, especially at that age and on such an important matter as the child’s career and future. So yes, I’d say that does make sense.”

“I felt…” I shut my eyes for a second, remembering how I’d thought Sebastian Cavalli was my only friend. How I’d believed him when he’d told me about the scheme he’d devised for us to strike it rich in Europe selling art. Little did I know he’d been pulling me into a money-laundering scheme. “I felt trapped by his expectations. At the same time, I was so quick to run from them that I didn’t realize the danger I was sprinting into.”

A wry chuckle escaped Pastor Tony’s lips. “Often, we’re so blinded by our desire to escape one situation that we don’t care where we end up until it’s too late.”

“Exactly. I didn’t realize my father, despite his faults, had only wanted the best for me, and that he’d always protected me from dangers I had been too naïve to understand.”

“And why do you think that leaving Montréal and going to Europe was ‘the worst mistake you’d ever made?’”

I shrugged, picking at my burger. Even as he repeated my own words back to me, I suddenly realized they couldn’t be true, not when they had led me to Georgia. I was sure anything would be worth it if it had led me to her. “When I left Montréal, I did it because of someone I thought was my friend. It turned out he was only using me.”

That was putting it lightly. But no matter how many emotional things I might confess to this pastor, I couldn’t tell him I’d been duped into participating into a criminal money laundering organization.

“I’m sorry, George.” The sincerity shining in his brown eyes was evident to me.

We fell silent for a moment.

“I’ve done things that are unforgivable. I ran away from my home and abandoned my family. I didn’t even come home for my father’s funeral. I don’t see how I can be forgiven for that.”

“Maybe even the saintliest of human beings couldn’t forgive you, George. Fortunately, I believe there’s forgiveness far greater than any human’s, if you’re just willing to accept it. Are you?”

I wasn’t sure if anyone could forgive me—but I thought I might want God to.

Chapter Eight: Georgia Philips

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